


The W H Smith at Charing Cross Station

by ElapsedSpiral



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bromance, Gen, Humor, M/M, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-22
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-04 03:01:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElapsedSpiral/pseuds/ElapsedSpiral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some people go to W H Smith to buy a book of Sudoku puzzles. "Some people" are not Sherlock Holmes. Based on a snippet of dialogue from the original stories, points to whoever can place it.</p><p>Bit of "bromance".</p>
            </blockquote>





	The W H Smith at Charing Cross Station

The most unnerving noise to come out of Sherlock Holmes, John Watson had come to conclude, was no noise at all. It was therefore with interest and more than a little concern that the man stood in the doorway of 221B and listened intently to the sounds coming from the detective’s bedroom. There were footsteps, not especially heavy ones but purposeful. A drawer closed and then the footsteps padded to the bathroom. The bathroom door closed. To the doctor’s alarm Sherlock stayed inside the bathroom for a good ten minutes according to his watch. In likelihood it was probably closer to a quarter of an hour as the watch had never been the same after its midnight dip in the Thames on one of their particularly odd outings.

As he heard the bathroom door open once more and footsteps pad down the hall John threw himself into his arm chair, picked up the television remote and turned the set on to some or other show about restoring or else demolishing picturesque cottages in Provincial France. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Sherlock as he wandered into the living room in his shirt sleeves. The look turned into an outright stare as the doctor noticed that the younger man took to facing the wall behind the sofa until he had reached his seat and flopped down upon it. Once seated the detective opened a magazine with a jerk of his hands and buried his head in its pages.

“Afternoon,” John offered, watching as a woman looked ecstatically happy about some or other development in the purchasing a vineyard, “Been busy?”

A grunt came from behind the magazine. Grunts were entirely new to Sherlock’s repertoire and so John opted to press on.

“Nice weather.”

There was a mumbled but clearly scoffing sound from behind the magazine. A proper look revealed the publication to be the Radio Times. Once the title had processed John’s brow knitted further still. He stared for a moment expectantly at the detective’s curls rising out of the top of the magazine.

“Sherlock?”

“Mm?”

“I feel like I’ve got something on my face, do I?”

There was a twitch in Sherlock’s hands clutching the magazine as the man clearly chose between breaking his puzzling silence with a snide comment and keeping quiet. At length the paper was retracted enough for the man’s keen grey eyes to peer out suspiciously as John rose to his feet. Sherlock gave a quick shake of his head as the doctor, with an unimpressed look, simply ripped the magazine free.

“Do you m-“

“Bloody- what the hell did you do?”

Sherlock clamped his mouth shut once more with a look that bordered on petulant. Choosing to ignore the man’s reaction John sat down beside Sherlock and gave him his best weary GP look.

“Open your mouth,” he demanded.

“Why?” Sherlock retorted but the word was enough. John felt his face threaten to crack with a grin at the sight of the detective’s mouth of pearly white, perfectly even teeth and its new edition of a perfectly even, empty space where the man’s left canine ought to have been nestled.

“Good lord Sherlock,” John said, giving into the laughter at last and studying too the rather red and purple patch of skin on the detective’s cheek that was bound to blossom into an impressive bruise, “What on earth were you up to? I thought you said you were going to Charing Cross today.”

“I was and did, to meet up with a Mr Matthews.”

“And then this?” his instincts took over and John edged closer to study the bruise and, with a dull glare from the detective as he opened his mouth, the tooth gap.

“And then this,” Sherlock agreed, “He’s a counterfeiter; not even a very good one. My portrait on a pound coin would be more inconspicuous than his rendering of the queen. I really only wanted to talk as well, needed information.”

“You’ve cleaned it up well,” even to John’s own ear the words sounded appreciative. Sherlock shrugged moodily.

“Well you’ll never leave me alone if I don’t either do that or let you take care it.”

“Doesn’t it hurt your mouth to keep talking?”

They shared a knowing smirk.

“Nice try. Not enough to bother me, no,” still the man gave the bruise a tentative brush with his fingers, scowling, “You should have seen him.”

There was something about Sherlock’s painfully public school boy manner, appearance and voice that put the words at odds with the man. John let out a snort.

“Really?”

“Yes really.”

The doctor’s eyes trailed to Sherlock’s right hand; his knuckles were scraped but had also been cleaned thoroughly.

“No you didn’t,” he nodded at the hand, now resting on the detective’s thigh, “You hit a wall, didn’t you?”

“Well deduced,” Sherlock conceded, drawing up his feet on the sofa and tucking his head down a little to meet his knees. He placed the clearly smarting hand on one knee and studied it as though it had somehow let him down, “W H Smith’s has far too many sets of shelves; lots of pointy edges.”

“You had a punch up in W H Smith’s?” John repeated, exasperated. Sherlock sent him an amused look.

“You’re just jealous.”

“Oh yes,” John rose to his feet with a shake of his head, “So jealous.”

“I caught the Mills and Boon stand,” Sherlock waggled the copy of the Radio Times he had been previously hiding behind and continued haughtily, “Then I bought this to clear the air. The staff don’t like clearing blood and teeth off the floor for some reason.”

“Can’t imagine why,” John muttered softly then reached down and gave the detective a peck on the forehead. The instant he had pulled away he opted to gape at Sherlock, mouth cringing.

“I... didn’t mean to do that,” he said dazedly.

“Well obviously you didn’t,” Sherlock agreed, looking equally traumatised although subtly and rather elegantly so.

“It’s being a locum. Lot of babies and kids to coo over.”

“I’m neither of those.”

“Babies and kids tend to have gappy teeth. You look sweetly pathetic in my defence.”

Musingly Sherlock ran the fingers of his good hand over the spot John’s lips had barely touched.

“Oh come on,” John cringed even harder, “It’s not that bad of a social faux pas. You’re not saying mummy was such a tyrant that she didn’t kiss your cuts and scrapes better when you were young?”

Sherlock turned his nose a little and muttered.

“Mummy’s people financed the guillotine.”

“God your family,” John muttered in despair. Still, might as well hang for the sheep as for the lamb he decided resolutely. While the detective was busy fleshing out his family history the doctor reached down again and, one hand gently pressed either side of Sherlock’s head, fingers lost in his curls he leant down and pressed another kiss to the man’s forehead with a smile and a little laugh.

“You look absolutely pathetic,” he said fondly by way of explanation. The detective shot him the most curious combination of a frown, a scowl, a smile and a blush, “Would you like a cup of tea or is it going to hurt your mouth too much do you think?”

“No tea,” the man said firmly, “But you can do something for me.”

“Ring the dentist?” John grinned, only to be surprised as he saw the man nod. It was remarkably orthodox for Sherlock.

“But not mine. I don’t have one. Contacts list, last entry under M.”

With a puzzled frown John fished out Sherlock’s phone from the mess on the man’s desk and scrolled through his address book. He gave a sigh of despair as he read the contact name.

“Sherlock, no, come on, I’m not saying you’re-“

“John,” Sherlock stood up and gave what would undoubtedly have been a fetching smile had it not been for the gap, “Do this for me.”

There was a moment of tense eyeballing before, as he always seemed to happen, John’s shoulders sagged and he nodded.

“Oh go on,” he rang the number listed as “Mycroft’s Dentist”.

“Super,” Sherlock beamed, his “S” whistling, “I’ll go and get my Mycroft disguise kit.”

In a flurry of limbs Sherlock had flown back up down the hall to his room. But (John smiled with embarrassment in the aftermath) not before giving him a rather enthusiastic peck on the forehead.


End file.
